all . He’d killed three people in the span of a few hours without showing a bit of remorse. Not to mention the disabled vampire out in the circular chamber.
Was he that convincing, or was it all no longer part of an act?
“Wait here,” he said quietly, opening the door at the end of the drafty hall.
She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but stopped at the rasp of flint and steel. A burst of flame grew as Garin fed the fireplace wood, casting ominous shadows across the rest of the room. Then, one by one, he lit the torches adorning each of the walls.
“Enter.”
Walking into Garin’s bedchamber reminded her unnervingly of earlier that evening at Sinclair’s campsite, and the evening before that back at the inn. As the fire danced, again was she alone with not a man, but a monster that had garnered more of her trust than was deserved.
Wooden racks lining the wall next to her held bottle after bottle of wine—or, at least, what looked like wine. A bed sat in the middle of the room atop a wool rug, the ironically burgundy sheets made and untouched. An impressive sword stand stood against the wall opposite them, an assortment of gilded long and short blades suspended in the wooden rackets. Next to that, a towering bookshelf with volume upon volume, frosted over in a thick layer of dust. Across the mattress, a person-sized cage contained a bench, pile of straw, and a chamber pot.
When she looked up at Garin, she found him staring at her, a lock of black hair falling onto his forehead, which he pushed back. It seemed like such a human gesture for someone who was anything but.
“You know,” he said, his brows knit together as he reached past her to pull the chamber door shut. “You should really stop doing that. For both your sake and mine,” he added.
He’d brushed against her lightly, and the faint scent of cedar and juniper made her dizzy. “Doing what?”
“Blushing.”
“That’s not exactly something I can help,” she snapped.
She’d clearly made a mistake in going along with him, in agreeing to play along. She was the reason Piper was dead. Lip quivering, she felt her devastation begin to morph into fury. She let it.
Garin had the nerve to smile warmly in the thickening silence, but it faded when he registered her scowl. “What?”
“You monster—”
“Here we go,” he muttered, half to himself. He cocked his head at the open cage door. “Go on, then.”
“—like hell, you repulsive swine! I’ll—”
“Right. Your father will have my head. Anything else?” He strode over to the door and leaned against it, unceremoniously sweeping an arm in. “The cage is yours, Your Highness. I am sure the haystack has been plumped to your liking.”
Lilac’s string of profanities stopped. She inhaled sharply. “In there? Absolutely not. I’m not spending my time with you, stuck in there.”
“The choice is yours, princess.” He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I didn’t think you’d fancy sharing the bed.”
Fuming, Lilac snatched her sack from him and tromped into the cell without another word. She warily watched Garin as he walked over and closed the door, which locked with a loud click.
“What am I supposed to do in here?” Her rage simmered as she gripped the bars. “This isn’t necessary.”
He slipped his baldric belt over his head; there was her dagger, sheathed in the pocket beside Sinclair’s gold-hilt sword, both glimmering in the firelight. The vampire threw her a molten grin as he perched on the edge of his mattress opposite her and began removing his shoes.
“Oh, it is too, necessary. If anyone enters and you’re roaming freely, I’d be subject to even more scrutiny. It would give Bastion reason to investigate more than he already has. So, I don’t know. Preoccupy yourself with princess things. Your kingdom won’t miss their pseudo-queen an extra night.”
Lilac plopped down on the bench to steady herself. She’d hardly had time to process anything at all. Garin, a Darkling. He was not only a vampire himself, but the leader of the Brocéliande coven, making him one of her largest adversaries.
Yet, here he was, poking fun at her as she sat helpless in a cage. Helpless and underground, leagues and even further away from anyone who could come to her aid.
“I am no pseudo anything.” She crossed her arms, refusing to entertain his jabs, knowing her reaction would only amuse him further. His raillery seemed without cynicism, but his last comment had struck